Don't Think About It
by dramaq
Summary: "This perversion of brotherly love was a private fetish, a sick fantasy, something on which to dwell when teachers yammered on about things he already knew, something with which to weave fantasies when Dean and Dad left him alone in some motel." Sam had never considered letting these feelings see the light of day until now. Wincest. Sam is 18, Dean is 22.
1. Chapter 1

Dean Winchester was the most amazing creature on the planet, in the universe. Although Sam knew Dean had flaws, he still couldn't help but regard his older brother as the pinnacle of human perfection, however contradictory that may seem. No matter how angry Dean got at the world, no matter how many times he'd return home with bloody knuckles and whiskey on his breath or fresh wounds and curses on his lips, he always easily slunk into the role of caring, protective older brother the moment he came back from the bar or the hunt. He gave Sam all the love and affection he could muster. And in return, Sam wanted to give his brother everything he had. He wanted to tend his wounds and to make him laugh. He wanted to listen to his anger and filter it away. He wanted to worship him, love him, kiss him. Yes, kiss him. Dean may have thought he knew how much his little brother idolized him, but he didn't know the half of it.

Sam didn't know quite when it started. He thought about this often nowadays, imagining that if he could find the moment when it all went wrong he could somehow unravel history. He could convince himself he imagined that initial feeling, that first flutter in his gut. He could strip away the memory and pull at that thread until the last four or five years warped into something normal, something less perverse. He believed he could undo his feelings for his older brother just like that. Sam was smart. He was smarter than the vast majority of students at his various schools, smarter than his brother, smarter than his father. He was convinced that there was nothing, nothing the power of his brain couldn't accomplish.

He told himself that he could stop wanting his brother at any time. This perversion of brotherly love was a private fetish, a sick fantasy, something on which to dwell when teachers yammered on about things he already knew, something with which to weave fantasies when Dean and Dad left him alone in some motel.

But in the past few months it had all become too much. Ever since that night a few months ago when Tracy Gilligan had tried to give him a blowjob in the lighting booth. Tracy was beautiful and sharp, a devoted stage manager and a talented kisser. Sam had been aching for this moment since Oklahoma's first tech run, when she'd confessed her feelings for him and tugged him into the costume closet to make out. But when she was finally on her knees before him, right where his horny 17 year old brain had always wanted someone to be, something inside him broke. He started going flaccid while his cock was still in her hand, while her full lips were inching toward the head. She took his semi-erection into his mouth, and Sam felt sick. And she tried, she really tried. Finally, she let it fall limp from her lips, and she looked up, eyes brimming with tears. And Sam had hated her just then. He hated her for making him feel guilty, pathetic, hopelessly vulnerable. But most of all he hated her for making the thought scream loud in his mind, grating, painful: _"SHE'S NOT DEAN"_

He hadn't even apologized. He'd just tucked himself away and gotten the hell out of there. He'd walked back to the motel even though it was nine miles away.

Tracy told the whole school the next day that Sam had used her and violated her, but it didn't matter. The Wednesday after Oklahoma ended they hit the road again. Mass killings in Texas. One hunter already missing or dead.

After that, his sick little desires started to sour, started to make him ill. Imagined kisses sent an empty aching through his gut whereas they used to fill him with warmth. Dirty fantasies left him painfully hard and nauseated whereas they used to envelop him in a delightful tingling arousal. That was when he wanted it to stop, when he _needed_ it to stop.

And he tried, he really did. Whenever he thought about Dean, he hurt himself with scratches or scalding water. Whenever Dad left them alone, he went out for a walk regardless of the weather. He threw himself into his schoolwork and didn't make the feeblest attempt at making any new friends. He applied to four colleges and didn't dwell on how he'd manage living so many miles away from Dean. And still, his first thought on the morning of his 18th birthday was _Yesterday I was legal in 38 states. Now I'm legal everywhere._ But of course that didn't matter since incest was still very much illegal.

Months later, Sam walked home from the diner in town. It was a Saturday night, and with only three weeks until the seniors' last day of school, the vast majority of Sam's classmates were off participating in wild quintessentially teenage activities—much of which seemed to be occurring at a house on the last paved road before their temporary home. The lights glared out of every window, and he could hear the music all the way down the block. Stumbling teens flowed between the house and the yard and occasionally the road. It was a fiery center of passion, hormones, and alcohol which seemed quite out of place nestled in a row of dark, sleeping homes. As he got closer, Sam recognized a kid from his AP Biology class standing on the stoop and pissing in the bushes below. One girl was screaming at him, but she was also laughing. Sam wondered if this was what ghosts felt like before they went AWOL. Passing through unobserved, the perpetual witness, unfazed by raw humanity. Perhaps it was this feeling that made them finally lose it.

There will be parties like this in college, Sam told himself. There will be huge parties full of frat boys and wild, intelligent girls who will embrace him as one of their own—he'll be just another college student. No monsters, no motels, no sick incestuous fantasies. But for now, he'd just pass through.

"Hey! Hey smart kid! Hey!" someone shouted.

"Sam!" another voice called out, and Sam turned his head. The boy who had been peeing in the bushes and two girls were stumbling toward him.

"Uh, hi." Sam shifted his backpack strap. He couldn't remember any of their names.

"Dude," the pissing boy clapped Sam on the shoulder. "Why'd you bring a backpack to the party?"

"Because he's a fucking nerd," one of the girls drawled, pursing her lips and sticking one hip out.

"Shut it, Vicky," the other girl slapped her friend on the arm and looked up at Sam. "C'mon, Sam," she wrapped an arm around his waist. Her head barely reached his shoulder, and it felt odd being claimed by someone so small. "Let's get you a drink."

Sam scanned his brain for a reason to back out and came up dry. He shrugged and let the girl guide him into the house.

"Pick your poison," she leaned against the counter in the kitchen and nodded toward the spread of various, mostly drained bottles.

"Is there some kind of whiskey?"

Her eyes lit up with something that may have been surprise. "Alright." She nodded to herself and continued nodding as she fumbled around for a clean solo cup.

She was kind of cute, Sam decided. She was blond with short spikey hair, and when she poured the alcohol her hips swayed in a way that was kind of cute but also something more.

"Drink up, tough guy," she held out the cup.

He tried to take a swig the way Dean would, but he couldn't manage to swallow without contorting his face. The girl smiled broadly, but didn't say anything. He brought the cup to his lips again, took a sip, and managed not to gag.

"Why don't you lose the backpack?"

"Uh…" Sam glanced over the kitchen floor littered with cups and sticky with liquid and peered into the living room congested with dancing, humping teens. He gripped his backpack strap harder.

"Here," she grabbed his hand. "You can put it in the laundry room."

"Uh, sure." She yanked him forward and the whiskey sloshed in the cup. They weaved through the house, and Sam almost felt invisible again, but he felt the hand of this petite girl who somehow knew his name, and he knew he wasn't forgotten.

She ripped the bag off his shoulder and tossed it in the dark, mercifully untouched room.

"C'mon." She balled his shirt in her fists and pressed herself against him. Sam fought the instinct to pull away almost as hard as he fought the impulse to pull her closer. "Let's dance," she whispered. She pushed off of him and walked toward the dance floor, hips swinging. Sam released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding and followed after her, taking large gulps of whiskey as he shuffled through the crowd.

Her hands were all over him, and the music filled the parts of him the whiskey couldn't touch. Sam didn't know how to dance and barely knew how to touch a girl, and yet his head was hot and fuzzy and his body was floating, floating, moving without the help of his mind.

Thoughts of Dean passed through his head, but they came out the other side without touching him, without hurting him. And Sam still felt like an apparition, but now he felt like he was possessing a human body. He could feel, _God_ he could feel. The sweat, the skin, the heat, her ass grinding against him, his legs bending low so he could meet her. But he still wasn't there, not fully present. It was almost as if this was a preview of a life to come—a reminder why he applied to college. The fact remained that only a dirt road away lay a small house filled with guns, machetes, silver, and salt with a '67 Impala parked outside. And it was too close. His life was still too close. And that's why he was suffocating. And that's why he couldn't fully appreciate this girls tiny compact body. Hadn't he always told Dean he liked blonds?

She turned around to face him and swung her arms around his neck. She pressed her pelvis into him, and they were hardly dancing anymore, just swaying and rolling against each other, and she made him feel huge, and powerful, and when she tilted her head up to kiss him, he kept himself out of reach. But then she pulled down on his neck. Hard. And their lips crushed together, wet and sloppy and vodka flavored. And somehow he wasn't worried about disappointing this girl. He didn't even know her name, and with the way the pulled on his hair and pressed into him, it felt as if she wanted him to absorb her. It was nice knowing he was enough for someone or even too much for someone—nice enough to send blood rushing downward. And he wasn't thinking about Dean, no he _wasn't_ thinking about Dean.

She palmed his crotch, and he felt her grin against his mouth. She pressed her lips against his ear and breathed "C'mon."

And then he was being dragged out of the house, spilling out into the yard, joining the stumbling flow of what seemed like hundreds of under-aged drunks. She pulled him around the corner to the side of the house.

Mere yards away from the front lawn and it was like stepping into a different plane of existence. The moon's light could no longer reach them and suburbia transformed into an urban dark alley. The girl pushed him against the house and began sucking on his neck and sliding her hands up under his shirt.

The thought crossed his mind that she could be a vampire, and if she were he'd really be fucked. But he tasted vodka on her lips, and he'd never heard of a vamp getting wasted on anything other than blood, so he tilted his head back and moaned, taking in the sensation, grounding himself in the moment. Definitely not thinking about Dean.

She pressed her hand against his crotch and his breath hitched. "You know what they say about tall boys…" she murmured into his neck.

Something crashed into the wall next to him, and Sam lurched away only to be slammed back into the wall by the girl working him over.

He turned his head to the two bodies that had appeared next to them. "_Dean?_"

His older brother turned his head. "Sammy?" The girl pressed against Dean tried to pull him back into a kiss, but he wrenched his head away and grabbed the girl by the hair, yanking her down. She got the hint. "Never thought I see you here," he laughed.

"M-me neither," Sam gasped. The girl who'd staked her claim on Sam was now kneeling before him, gripping his hips hard and nuzzling his crotch. If she noticed Sam was having a conversation with the guy next to him, she didn't care.

"Dude, this is _weird_." Dean smiled easily, then hissed. "Fucking teeth," he mumbled.

Dean fisted the girl's hair and leaned the side of his head against the wall, still locking eyes with his little brother. His eyes were hooded, but his cheeks were barely flushed. He looked calm, calmer than Sam had ever seen him, but he was powerful, and lustful, and Sam could hardly restrain himself from pushing both of these girls away and taking his brother into his own mouth…

Sam felt a hand slide into his pants, and the girl pulled him out through the slit in his boxers, and Sam was _not_ calm. His knees were shaking and his head was spinning, and when the girl's mouth closed around him, he squeezed his eyes and threw his head back and it crashed into the wall. Distantly, he heard a low laugh.

Suddenly his entire dick was inside her, the head pressing against the back of her throat, and a loud moan ripped through him. He should have felt embarrassed, utterly mortified, but he couldn't find it in himself to care that he was a quivering mess or that his brother was watching him fall to pieces.

He cracked his eyes open, and yes, _yes_, Dean was still watching him. His face was still cool and calm, but he was panting fast and his eyes were wide, desperate, unblinking, looking at Sam, raking all over Sam. Dean ran his tongue over parted lips, and Sam nearly lost it right there, but it had only been a minute, maybe two, and the girl between his legs was still moving slowly, so he held on, grasping the girl's hair in his fists just like Dean, but he knew he didn't look like Dean, couldn't look as amazing as Dean.

Sam let his eyes roam all over Dean's body, and my _God_ it was even better than seeing him step out of the shower wet and glistening with thin motel towel low on his hips. Even in the dark, Dean looked glorious. Sam never thought he'd see these parts of his brother and he never thought his brother would see these parts of _him_, and the girl was bobbing faster, and she was groping at his balls and it was a little too rough but it also felt good.

And Dean was rocking his hips now, and Sam wished Dean's pants were all the way off, and Sam tuned back into the noises coming out of his own mouth, and he was whimpering and gasping, and he couldn't bear it. His eyes squeezed shut.

"Open… your eyes," Dean gasped. Sam cracked his eyes open and met the full force of Dean's gaze, that same look of desperation, that hunger, and Sam's body shuddered violently. "Good, Sammy," his brother growled.

"Dean!" he moaned, coming hard in the girls mouth. She gagged, and pulled back, finishing him off with her hand, but he didn't care. He couldn't care. He couldn't think. He'd never felt so amazing in his life, and he didn't even feel a touch of guilt or shame.

The girl pulled herself up and leaned against his chest. "Give a girl some warning, huh?" she rasped. He folded his arms around her and caressed her absently, still watching Dean. "Was that good?"

Dean came with a grunt, tilting his head back and slipping his eyes shut, splendid.

"So good," Sam whispered. The girl laughed and began kissing his chest where the skin was exposed. Sam stroked her hair and looked over at Dean, who was whispering in his girl's ear. The girl at first looked pissed, but then she softened and leaned into him.

"Yeah," she whispered. "Yeah, ok."

And then the two of them were walking back toward the front lawn, Deans arm slung loosely around her waist. Sam felt his muscles beginning to tense again.

"That wear you out, sweetie?" the petite girl who's name he felt extremely guilty for not knowing pulled him down for a soft kiss. "Y'know. I thought it was kind of hot that you were talking to that other guy."

So she did notice. Of course. The fire in his cheeks turned up from sizzling to scalding. The shame flooded back. He could feel it like a hard stone in his gut. "S-sorry."

She giggled and kissed his jaw. "Hey, I don't judge." She pulled back. "So you want to go back inside or…"

"Uh… I think I'd better head home." He honestly wasn't sure if he'd be able to do as much without dissolving into a puddle.

"Cool. Let's get your backpack."

While inside he didn't see Dean or the girl he was with in the rapidly thinning throng of people in the living room or the kitchen. He didn't want to think about where else they might be.

The girl walked him out to the lawn. "See ya in Calc," she said.

Calculus! Of course! She was the girl who sat behind him and was always putting things in his hair or down the back of his shirt like they were in freaking middle school. Cindy.

"Bye, Cindy. And uh… thanks for…"

"Don't mention it," she smiled easily, then stepped a little closer. "Really, though. _Don't_ mention it."

"Oh, uh, sure." He tugged at his backpack. "Sure thing." He turned and began walking home.

Sam couldn't help but feel a little stung. He'd never been the most popular kid in school, never like his brother, but girls were usually proud to kiss him. Usually told all their friends.

Turning onto the last small dirt road, Sam's face was still flushed with shame. Shame for using a girl like that. Shame for not knowing her name. Shame for _being_ used like that. And, of course, most significantly, doing it all in front of his brother, even _for_ his brother.

There was no car in front of the house, and for that Sam was glad. Dad never gave him a curfew per se, but something told him that he wouldn't like to see Sam coming home tipsy from a party so late at night. Sure enough, there on the kitchen table was a note.

_Going to Connecticut. Poltergeist. Should be back on Monday._

_ Dean, look out for your brother._

Sam snorted. If only Dad knew how exactly Dean was _looking_ _out_ for him…

Sam groaned and ran both hands through his hair. Best not to think about that now. Best not think about that ever.

But as Sam slipped into bed that night, he _did_ think about it. And when he fell asleep that night, he dreamed about it.

And when he woke up the next morning with a hollow aching in his chest which felt much worse than his first hangover, he knew there was no way to stop thinking about it. He'd reached a new level in his depravity. Because for the first time, there was a little flicker of hope alongside the pain.

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><p><strong>AN: Hello everyone! This is my first Supernatural fanfic! Yay for new obsessions! For reals though, I seriously love this fandom.  
><strong>

**There's definitely going to be another chapter, even though I do think this could stand on it's own. Not sure if it will be a two-shot or develop into something longer.**

**I'd really love to hear what you guys think or if you have any advice for writing Supernatural fanfic or wincest.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

Sam woke up slowly. He felt the fabric against his skin, the hair stuck to his forehead, his arm tingling beneath his head, and he floated in dream space until his mind caught up to let him know that he was aware and alive and should probably open his eyes now to see that it's… 12:06.

_Shit_.

Sam lurched out of bed and the sheets clung to his skin and tangled around his legs and only when he rose did he notice that his skull felt like it was about to explode.

He made his way to the bathroom, feeling his brain throb with every step.

He stepped into the shower without checking the temperature first and accepted the biting cold water as just penance. He wondered how Dean did this—how he managed the aching head, the throbbing eyes, the cotton-filled mouth wrought by alcohol. He wondered whether hangovers became easier with age or with practice. He wondered why he was dwelling on his stupid hangover rather than the events which precipitated it. He wondered how long he could stay in the shower before someone noticed and busted down the door to find him cold and miserable under the sputtering showerhead.

He dressed himself slowly, taking the extra time to thoroughly towel-dry his hair and select the perfect pair of socks for a Sunday until finally his grumbling stomach forced him downstairs.

And of course Dean was in the kitchen, rifling through the fridge. "Mornin' Sleeping Beauty," he flashed an easy smile at Sam.

Sam averted his eyes and walked toward the coffeemaker. "You're one to talk." The pot was still a third full. He pressed the button to reheat.

Sam heard Dean grunt in response. Something banged in the fridge, and Dean muttered a curse. The fridge closed and something plopped onto the counter. Dean moved into his periphery, and Sam angled his head away. He watched the coffee in the pot, and thought about how good it would feel to hold a warm mug in his hand, to feel the hot liquid filling his gut.

"Hey." Dean's voice was right behind him, and really, it made no sense why Sam's ears were becoming so hot. "Sam?" If he were as good at squelching his feelings as he was at hiding them he wouldn't be _in_ this mess. But now… "I'm making grilled cheese. You want one?"

"Y-" he coughed and swallowed hard. "Yeah."

He heard the stove click on. "Did you drink last night, Sammy?"

The coffeemaker beeped, and Sam grabbed a mug off the drying rack. "Yeah." He filled the mug, and turned around to lean against the counter. He watched Dean press the spatula down on the sandwiches, and he focused on the warmth of the mug in his hands.

"Dude. I offered you a beer last week, and you said you didn't drink."

Sam shrugged, and sipped at his coffee. He usually took it with a little milk, but his throbbing head told him he needed the bitter kick. "Now I do, I guess."

"When it's a pretty girl offering _I guess_." Dean looked up from the pan and smirked, but his gaze was hard, intense.

Sam felt his cheeks burn, and he firmly told himself it was just the coffee. He took another sip. "Drinking is just what you do at a party like that."

Dean turned the stove off and placed the sandwiches on two paper plates. "And how would you know what to do at a party like that?"

"I was there. People were drinking."

Dean took his plate to the center island and plopped down on a stool. Sam followed suit, taking the other plate to the island and standing across from Dean.

Dean ripped off a third of the grilled cheese in one bite. "Look, Sammy," he said around his full mouth. "I'll be the first one to tell you to cool it with the nerd stuff, but you can't just..." He furrowed his brow and took a smaller bite. "Dad would kill me if he found out you were going to parties like that. If a neighbor called the cops, what do you think would happen?"

"I would've run." He took a Dean-esque bite of his grilled cheese.

"Dude," Dean snorted. "You were drunk off your _ass_. You wouldn't have made it."

Sam clenched his jaw. "I wasn't that drunk, Dean."

Dean shoved the rest of the sandwich into his mouth. "Do you even remember last night?"

Sam narrowed his eyes and brought the coffee back to his lips. Dean was giving him an out. A way to pretend none of it ever happened. They could just go on being dysfunctional, emotionally constipated brothers. Sam would avoid Dean for all eternity and Dean would never ask Sam why. Sam would go off to college and leave Dean behind. He'd meet some pretty girl, and have 2.5 kids with her. She'd ask if he had a brother, and he'd say no. And that would be the end of it. That was what he'd known could happen when he sent those applications in the mail.

He put the cup down and looked back up at Dean. His face was hard, blank, unreadable. Sam gritted his teeth. He knew the _right_ thing to do. He'd been doing the _right_ thing his whole damn life.

"I remember," Sam said slowly, annunciating every syllable. "I remember perfectly."

Dean's expression morphed into a glare. "Then why the _fuck_ did you say my name."

The back of his neck broke out into a cold sweat. Sam swallowed hard. "W-why," his voice wavered. He took a deep breath. "Why the _fuck_ were you staring at me?"

Dean stood up and the stool came crashing down behind him. Sam barely had time to put down his coffee before Dean had him by the collar of his shirt. He yanked him away from the island and shook him hard. "What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?!"

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat. "You were staring at me." The words came out quieter than he'd hoped.

Dean jerked him again, and his teeth slammed together. "The fuck I was," Dean spat.

"You told me to open my eyes," Sam insisted. "You wanted me to look at you." His eyes were hot, wet.

Dean shook him again, and Sam felt his heart beat in his skull. Dean breathed in through his nose, clenched his jaw, and shoved Sam away. Sam's hip hit the island, but he didn't fall.

Dean balled his fists and looked down at the floor. Sam could see the veins popping out of his arms. "I shouldn't have done that. I don't… I don't know why I fucking…" his shoulders slumped. "Sammy… I'm…" He slammed his fist down on the island "_Shit!_"

Sam took one long stride and grabbed his brother into a hug. He rested his head on Dean's shoulder and squeezed hard, half afraid that Dean would try to wrest him away. When he felt Dean's arms lightly settle around his waist, he relaxed. Dean seemed to slowly uncoil as well, and soon he was rubbing circles into the small of Sam's back and whispering words and syllables that didn't have any meaning. And although Sam was now officially taller than his big brother, he felt very small.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered.

Sam lifted his head from Dean's shoulder. "Don't be."

"What?" Deans hands froze.

"Just…" Sam took a deep breath. Dean's face was close… too close. He'd never seen his eyes so clearly before. He felt the heat returning to his cheeks. "Just tell me what you feel."

"What?" Dean scoffed, and took a large step back. "Sammy. I don't _do_" he waved his hand between them. "this crap."

"Dean, just… tell me why you wanted me to look at you last night."

A muscle in Dean's neck flexed. "Sam, I told you I-"

"No, Dean. You didn't tell me why."

"Sam you-" he gestured wildly. "You _know_ fucking why."

Sam took a step forward. "Then don't be sorry."

"Sammy," he his arms fell to his sides. "You don't know what you're saying."

Sam grabbed his brother's shoulders, and Dean lurched back into the counter. Sam tightened his grip. "I _do_."

Sam pressed his lips to his brother's and suddenly forgot how to kiss. Dean's lips were dry and hard and did not move. In fact, it was really more of a solid touch of lips than a real kiss. He pulled away before the shock set in.

He _did_ it. He actually _did_ it. As in real life. Not a fantasy or a dream. Real life.

_Fuck._

Dean wasn't moving. His eyes were wide and his lips were pressed tight. Sam lifted his hands off his brother's shoulders and took a small step back.

Still, Dean didn't move. Sam shifted from one foot and then to the other. He tried to come up with some explanation for what he did but all that occupied his mind was the heavy feeling of despair coiling in his gut, growing with each passing second that Dean, a man of action if there ever was one, remained still.

He was stupid to hope. Stupid to think that Dean's drunken leering meant anything. But it was too late now to back out, too late to say "just kidding."

Sam took one step back, and then another. He turned his back on his brother and felt eyes on him all the way to the doorway.

"Sammy." Sam paused and forced himself to turn back around. He wasn't ready for this, wasn't ready to hear Dean's disgust put into words and curses. "I don't want…" Sam's eyes instantly refilled with tears and Dean's face became hazy. "I wasn't asking you to do that for me."

Sam blinked. "What?"

Dean walked over to the kitchen table and slumped into a chair. He looked like he just got back from a failed hunt. "I know I'm a… pervert, Sam, but you don't have to do… what I want to do. I… care about you too much, man." He looked up at Sam, eyes pleading.

Something flared inside Sam—his burning hope ignited and morphed into certainly. He crossed the room in two long strides and grabbed Dean by the shoulders. "Tell me what you want to do."

"Sammy!" He tried to get up, but Sam slammed him back into the chair. "No! I won't-"

"Please, Dean. I think… I think we want the same thing, but I won't _know_ what the _hell_ you're really talking about until you just say it!"

"Sam," Dean narrowed his eyes. "I'm fucking warning you…"

"I _love_ you Dean."

"Sam, I'm not-"

"As _more_ than a brother. And I think you feel the same way."

"No." Dean kneed him in the gut, and Sam stumbled back, hunched over. He heard the chair crash to the ground. "No. You. Don't."

"Ye-" Sam groaned, and took a shuddering breath. "Yes I-" he coughed. "Yes I _do_."

"_Damn_ it, Sam." Dean ran both hands through his hair. "We're brothers. I'm not going to fuck you up, man. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Dean," Sam managed to straighten up. "You just kneed me in the gut."

"Not like that, numb skull." Dean smacked the back of his head.

Sam winced and rubbed his head. "Why don't you believe me?"

"Because…" Dean lifted his heads hands in front of him and balled them into fists, as if he were imagining crushing Sam's skull. He exhaled and dropped his hands. "You always do your fucking best to make me happy. But _this_," he gestured between them. "This is crossing a line. You don't have to do this."

Sam stepped forward and grabbed his brother by the biceps. "I've wanted to do this for _years_" He kissed him again, and this time Dean responded. He balled Sam's hair in his fist and crushed their faces together. They kissed like two starving dogs struggling to tear the last scraps of meat off a bone. They kissed like guns were pressed against their skulls, forcing them together. They kissed like the last breath of air in the world lay within each other's lungs.

Dean wrenched Sam away by the hair, and Sam whimpered, but did not cry out. Sam watched Dean's eyes travel over his face, calculating, analyzing. Finally, Dean released his grip on Sam's hair and cradled the back of his brother's skull in the palm of his hand. Dean leaned in and kissed Sam once more, this time gently, as if his lips were caressing velvet. Dean pulled back again and looked Sam dead in the eye. "If I _ever_ do something like this again, you tell Dad."

"W-what?"

Dean released his grip on Sam, but maintained eye contact. "You tell Dad."

Dean crossed the kitchen to the fridge, pulled out three beers, and walked out of the kitchen. A moment later, the front door slammed.

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><p><strong>AN: Thank you all for reading! I'd love to hear what you think!  
><strong>


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